


Black Walls

by Kameiko



Category: Deus Ex (Video Game 2000)
Genre: Action, Angst, Dark Comedy, Diary/Journal, Drama, Drinks, F/M, Food, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Kissing, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Missions, Murder, On the Run, Plot Twists, Psychological Torture, Revenge, Romance, Undercover, stealth - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/pseuds/Kameiko
Summary: Paul's journey to becoming a wanted felon all started with the turn of a page.
Relationships: Paul Denton/Original Female Character
Comments: 121
Kudos: 8





	1. Black Walls Vol 1

“Are you Paul Denton?” A delivery woman stands on the front doorstep of Paul’s bottom floor apartment. Drenched from the rain and wears a look on her face telling the customer not to give her any bullshit trouble with questions about her presence or unmarked packages. Paul doesn’t pick up on the subtlety of her aggravated anger. “Look, man, I’m just the delivery gal. I don’t have all day to play 50 questions. All I am instructed to do is hand deliver this package today at this time by my client. Now if you excuse me, I need to get changed in the back of my shady vehicle.”

Paul watches the sarcastic delivery woman leave without as so much as a polite good-bye. He closes the door gently behind him with a soft sound of a click and the turning of the deadbolt. He makes his way to the kitchen and pulls out a pair of scissors from one of the junk drawers and unties the string wrapped around the flimsy box. The protective wrapping crumbles under Paul’s hands due to the rain making everything easier to tear with only a slight touch, feels like a wet newspaper as the ink smears all across his fingertips. Inside he pulls out an old looking faux moleskin journal. He flips open the pages to see the penmanship is sloppily written in some spots, and excellently written in others, emotions of calm and rage are foreshadowing in his mind. A small, folded note falls out and onto the floor. Picking it up, Paul unfolds it to see that this one is typed face, not with a computer, but with a format that could be found with one of those old-fashioned typewriters. Paul’s shoulders tense at the relic that’s in between his fingers, wishing he could meet this person already to ask them where they purchased their ancient history discovery, an order of celebration deserves to run its course.

_Paul,_

_I hereby lay my final regrets to you with a hopeful order that you’re able to bring an uplifting future to those around the world that are paying for my mistakes._

_Sincerely Apologetic,  
D. S._

Short, to the point, and with the vagueness of a programing startup code. Paul sighs and sets the items down on the counter. If he’s going to be reading this mysterious person’s diary then a bottle from his finest stash of whisky is asking to be opened. He grabs it, not bothering with a glass, and unscrews the top, flicking the offending cork piece to the other side of the counter. It bounces off the wall and lands on the dirtiest part of the floor. Paul scrunches his face at the disgusting mold and chooses to ignore it; he’ll get around to cleaning it another day. He plops down on the bar stool and starts his first journey into regret. 

_xx.xx.2030 -_  
  
What a great start of the year. Mankind has finally developed a cure for AIDs, and the usual skeptical citizens of the United States go on a protest with their signs waving in the air saying the cure is fake and anyone who takes it admits they’re guilty of committing a sin against God with their dirty blood. Ironic because the religions speak that humans should obey the laws placed upon their heads by man. Low and behold the Scientific Lord brings gifts! Because that same night Pasadena, California became the first inner city to have permanent beach side homes with the cost of becoming a governmental law controlling disaster relief center that the same protestors now stand out in a long lines with their fellow man to get humanitarian aid. Almost starts an atonement for the arrogant actions and thoughts of the human race that became followers and leaders of organized religion that follow a made-up fairy dragon or humans that play said fairy dragon. We control how we shape this planet, and the ones that placed the science of nature under their thumb did just that. In other words, human nurture will never be the dominant organism. 

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I am sitting here comfortably in my home, sipping my sweet tea, and staying away from the screaming homeless people outside my door. They found my place of residence a while ago and started setting up their campfire tents on my driveway. One night I thought I heard them singing “Kumbaya” while holding hands around the badly made fire pit that could potentially burn my house down. I am relieved for the neighbors across the street that came out with a water hose and threatened to spray them down if they didn’t stop their off-key singing. I should be worried that this could lead to legal trouble, but I’m not. The HOA will figure something out, bribery or blackmail. Take the pick of the crop._

_I had my food delivered to me. The services are no longer available to me because of the employee’s safety after being forced to wear a garland of peace and penance on their head. I understand._

_My power has shut down again due somebody flipping the fuse box behind my house. Words spray painted across the lid in more or less formality saying that I need to start saving all the money I could to pay for this country’s homeless epidemic. I understand._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I no longer understand the masses hatred towards me. They’re still there. Laughing and enjoying their mugs of stagnant water while talking about how I am going to have to come out of the house sooner or later to get non-perishable foods. I pull the curtains close when they waved at me._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I finally called the police today. I watched each protest cry and hit the officers as they’re placed in handcuffs. Shouting all the way to the station that they’re doing nothing wrong, and it’s their God given right to step onto private property when the humanitarian crisis affects them personally. I feel for them, I do, but there’s nothing I can do against something that’s completely out of my hands. Lucky for them they have a place to sleep tonight. Unlucky for me I still have to go into town where the stores have eyes._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_The mannequins were much more appreciative and well-spoken to me than the beady glares of the store staff. No, I didn’t go to the grocery store today like I had planned. I made a detour to the nearest clothing store because someone robbed me last night! I only stepped outside for a few minutes to enjoy my homeless free property, meaning I haven’t had a breath of fresh air in a while, to come back to a broken bedroom window. All my clothes were stolen, and a single token flower crown remained. Angry I am, but I didn’t have the energy to crush it under my foot. I just hope whoever they sell the suits to gives them a good enough deal that they’re able to feed themselves, their family, and maybe the family pet. I wonder if they like dogs or cats? I should get a bird or pay the alarm system’s outrageous rate hike due to my “location”._

Paul slowly closes the journal and sits back in confusion. “What the Hell did I just read? This feels like I am reading a script to a badly written movie.” That or the alcohol started to have a deep effect on him. He opens the book again to try and gain a sense of what the words are trying to tell him for the next time. Like a prologue note for the next chapter. Nothing worth dogearing pops out at him, not right away. Chicken scratch writing up and down pages that’s littered with dried coffee stains. Even the ink is looking more jumbled with each sentence he finishes reading. He sighs, rubs his tired eyes, and closes the book one final time for the night. He has work in the morning and doesn’t have time to confront in anymore of these deep depressed pages of this person’s life.

“Tomorrow. I promise I’ll open you back up tomorrow.” Paul places the whiskey bottle on top of the book to show his word is his sobriety before going to get ready for bed. He slams his bedroom door harder than he should have, causing the bottle to topple over and crash to the floor.


	2. Black Walls Vol 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul's delivery virtuoso lady pays another visit to his doorstep.

“Food delivery for Paul Denton.” The same bored looking delivery woman from yesterday hands over Paul’s food in a leaking plastic bag, turning to take her leave immediately afterwards. Paul doesn’t even get a chance to ask her since when did she become a food delivery driver, because she turns around and stares at him, daring him to ask any stupid questions when her eyes look like she had stolen the makeup design from a raccoon. She does look like she hasn’t slept in a week or possibly more. Would be rude of him to watch her walk away without offering a bite to eat. He motions for her to come back over by jiggling the bag out in front of himself. She snorts and patronizes him for treating her like a beckoned dog. That’s not his intentions or to be an ill will of faith. He doesn’t get to express the gaping thought out lout because she’s already too far gone with each step becoming quieter. He really wants to kick himself for saying harsh things about the stranger. She’s just trying to get by with the multiple jobs she has to pay her bills. He feels that. He goes back inside and kicks the door closed behind him.

The lights flicker on automatically due to the motion sensor and immediately shines on the mess from yesterday, plates consisting of crumbs and scavenging roaches already trying to swipe the morsels, reminding him that he needs to clean it up before he hurts himself or Darwinism takes over his life. Neither really a top priority over his growling stomach, so he pushes the problem out of his mind in favor of his current life crisis dinner. He had a bad day at work. Fighting with his boss, and tonight he just wants to relax, have a drink, watch a bit of TV, and go to bed early to repeat everything all over again the very next day. He sits down on the bar stool next to the journal, delicately unrolling the paper, making sure not to spill any of the juices on himself or the objects present in front of him. He glares at the bound book afterwards. Keen on pretending it sets itself on fire, not wanting to look at the mocking horror that awaits him. Doesn’t work. What a shame, but since there’s really nothing to watch on TV at this time of the evening, not with all the soap operas that everyone’s wives are watching, he could pressure himself into delving into another page or two into this badly written drama like he promised himself yesterday. Whatever. Nothing left to lose with his piss end of a job and lack of respect for himself and by others. He sets his partially eaten sub down and opens the book, careful not to get any lettuce or honey mustard on the scribbles.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Why did I cancel my subscription for the best cheap home security? The best of the best in a crumbled-up Detroit, and I choose not to resubmit my information to save even more money. I have money to last me a lifetime of living in a comfortable home all by myself without distractions from my family and acquaintances. I choose not to waste my remaining savings account balance on things that make me feel insecure. What a steal towards something that never existed in the purpose._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I went to the grocery store today after forgetting to yesterday. I became all caught up in my imaginary financial hole that I forget that being hungry is definitely a human bodily function that told on me to my brain. Except my entire being didn’t like the soup I bought for my digestive system. Make a note in the front of this book: don’t buy expired soup from five years ago, even if you want to be cheap by reaching way In the back on the bottom shelf that nobody bothers to check for restocking because you want to be a cheap bastard. A bad case of food poisoning wouldn’t break my bank of temporary discomfort, but a bad case of United States health insurance will make me suffer for an agonizing eternity._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_My appetite died today. I buried the grossness and said a prayer to the inside of my toilet, while throwing the rosary beads into it. I haven’t been feeling well as of lately. Everything I’ve tried to eat ends up in the throne or outside as fertilizer, which I realize I shouldn’t be doing. Human stomach acids are not good for the plants. I’m tired. I wish my medicine would come in soon. I’ve been giving myself injections very sparingly. I need to save what I have left._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I went outside to fix the sprinkler system. Summer is coming and I needed to be prepared for the intense heat and so did my lack of shrubbery. I heard laughter and screaming coming from the front of my lawn. When I went to check out the noise, I see a bunch of phased out people playing a game of tug-of-war with a small box from the company that sends me my prescriptions every month. They didn’t like having water come out of the ground to play a new game with them. I paid for the mistake when they slammed the container on the concrete, breaking the glass vials inside. Did I mention I’m tired?_

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I am very tired of everyone’s shit today. I wanted to get some sunlight and forget about the shakes going down my legs. The summer is here, and I am sipping on a bottle of water I bought earlier from the convenient store. Kind of weird of me to call a taxi to take me a couple of miles down the road just for something this minor when there’s a perfectly good, filtered tap dispenser in my kitchen. Well, that’s what happens when your water is cut for not paying the overdue water bill. I’ll have it sorted by the beginning of next month._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I received a letter in the mail today expecting it to be a letter saying my house is a danger to the neighborhood, but no, it’s a personal letter with no return sender letting me know in one blunt sentence that my son passed away over a month ago._

Paul turns the page in the diary to see pictures of an augmented man that he doesn’t recognize. There are lacerations from some kind of blade across his body with multiple headshot wounds from some unidentifiable semi-automatic. Dark bruises appear where his heart is, and dried blood is coming out of his mouth. Eyes are closed and arms rest by their sides. Looks like the man has been in a fight with someone much bigger than himself, and his body took a severe beating. The back of each photograph contains a time of death and the cause of each mark according to the coroner’s examination. He squints hard when one says: heart failure due to closed off valves that pumps the blood through the mechanical tubes. That couldn’t be right. Even with this error, it should’ve been temporary and the system in the man’s head should’ve resettled within the host, and that’s if the body mutilation didn’t do him in first or this being a precaution after he died of a mechanical heart attack. He doesn’t understand what he’s missing or get any more time to think if the postmortem is a sign of revenge, because there’s a knock at the door. Paul sets the photo back in the diary and goes to answer the door to see his favorite virtuoso delivery woman is standing there with a very affirmative action smile. She’s not in her work-related uniform and has a medium size lumpy looking parcel in her hands. The smart thing would be to tell her to come back tomorrow during normal business hours and when she’s dressed back in a professional uniform, but Paul ignores all the screaming in his head to go against his better judgement and lets her in. 


	3. Black Walls Vol 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demanding Delivery Lady doesn't like the doubleback looks and doubts.

Paul opens the package that’s given to him by the strange woman of many talents. Inside the contents of the massive amount of bubble wrap appears to be a small device with a circular red button positioned in the middle. He looks up at her to ask, “What’s this for?” She doesn’t answer his question, she’s fixing something with her hair and taking off her jacket, making herself comfortable without his consent. He checks to see if there’s any indication of a note. Nothing of the sort. He looks back up see she’s dressed in casual clothes and her shoulder length curly hair rests around her face.

“I think you know what this is.” Even her accent has changed to something not of the normal United States standards Paul comes across while on the job. She must be from somewhere from way out of town or across the ocean or Brooklyn. He doesn’t get the chance to ask. “Please read the rest of the journal. I don’t feel like staying here any longer than I have to. Certain people will become suspicious of my whereabouts when I don’t come back with their precious delivery truck.”

Paul is taken back by the callous attitude. “What do you know about what I am reading?” Outside of the shady sudden change of clothes and accent, the dead giveaway hasn’t clicked with him. She frustratingly lets out a sigh and stops herself from popping him on the forehead. He’s supposed to be the smart one, not the dumb one her mother told her time and time again to avoid.

“Come on, man! You invited me into your home out of pique curiosity instead of leaning on the side of caution, and have the audacity to ask me about what you’re reading? I’ll dress up as a fast-food worker next time and hand deliver you a supersize burger and fries with a diet soda.” She grabs the diary off the counter and flips through the pages till she finds the one that Paul earmarked. She unfolds it, letting out another frustrated growl when he opens his mouth about making herself feel right at home. “Don’t bend priceless papers like this! Didn’t your father teach you any matters?” She slaps him with the book.

“Hypocrite much?” Paul grabs the woman’s wrist before she unexpectedly rips the journal in places that become illegible. Lucky for her he’s already read those. “Slow your role and sit down, lady. Start from the beginning and tell me who you are. Then I might not call the police and report a suspected terrorist that randomly hides detonators in postal packages, which is a huge red flag, mind you, and will throw you in a supermax prison for life. They don’t take too kind to obey laws of not torturing people that try to blow up buildings.”

She pulls her wrist away and does as she’s asked to do. Talk about wanting to take a side of precaution, she needs to follow her own advice. He might have a gun under that coat for all she knows. Stupid that she didn’t think to buy an illegally purchased sidearm from the black market she passed on the way here. Quite the contrary that these places exist right under the naked eye that the police turn a blind eye too. “Fine. The detonator is to blow each member of the illuminati in one go and watch their intestines paint the walls of their living room.” She rolls her eyes when he stares at her with his threat of calling the police. “Sigh. Some acquaintance of my family, and the person’s diary you’re reading from had a scheme going on to bring down the evil conspiracy nuts for a final time.”

“That’s just a myth.” He doesn’t really believe that. He just doesn’t like talking himself into believing it. “What? There’s a difference to my sense of words and yours.”

She laughs at him and grabs the photographs from the journal, spreading them out on the table. If they’re such a myth than these outdated polaroid captures really are posing as cheap Halloween props. He’s not convinced. Paul’s seen some crazy shit out of forensics and in real life, enough to give the average non-augmented person nightmares to last two lifetimes, but these are circumstantial at most. The time of death written in sloppy handwriting with smeared ink could’ve happened anywhere at any time. These could also point to an inside job to frame innocent people.

She lets out a haughty laugh. “You work for the true terror organization also known as UNATCO, and your well-misplaced trust in them most certainly isn’t a myth. Time to open those empathetic eye blinders, yeah?” 

Paul hesitates to speak. This situation of alarms speaks on all volumes on his level of trying to hide his suspicions. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs the bridge of his nose, not wanting to think about how right she is. The other day he’s seen Page and Manderley down in the sub-basement levels of the main headquarters talking together about a recently deceased ex-ceo of an industry long before his time missing a certain journal from his bookcase, according to the maids that still keep a well-preserved dead man’s house for heirs, if there are any or the money in the bank to keep jobs on deck runs out. Reckless of them to assume nobody can hear them, but the off chance of the book being the one Paul has is coincidental, too on the nose with their description and the destruction it could bring if anyone worth looking into has access to it. 

She taps her fingers against the reading space and leans in to deliver a message into Paul’s ear, “You need to be careful from here, and I will find out if you rat me out to them.” By the sound of gunfire and the news media having a field day with trying to identify who the mysterious burnt corpse is that’s sitting on the stoop of city hall. News flash: it wouldn’t be her.

No glare or snide remark in constraints to her threat. He turns his head in the opposite direction to avoid anymore breath in his ear from her whispers. She pulls away, giving him a wink and the cruelest soft smiles he’s ever seen. Her phone goes off, and she glares down at the dropdown text message on her notification screen. Her facial features insinuate the news can’t be good. She tucks the phone back into her pocket and the earlier smile returns. “Mind if I steal the rest of your drink? The police will be dispatched in half an hour if I don’t bring back the vehicle.”

“Fired already?” Paul laughs at the irony. “Fine, but only the worse one in the cabinet. If I am going to read up on a murder-mystery or-“ he waves his hands around the photos. “-whatever this is, I need to be on my best behavior.”

“Great! I’ll check up on you tomorrow morning around 8 AM. Be up and don’t be late to our meeting!” She grabs the bottle out of the cabinet and turns back to Paul one final time. “I prefer my eggs scrambled with cheese and chocolate milk.”

And with a wink she’s gone. Paul leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head at the mess he’s conveniently placed himself in again. “What is with all the seemingly innocent ones trying to take my life while extorting a weirdly requested free meal?”

Placing the thoughts of possible death in painful ways aside, Paul opens the journal to where he left off.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I’ve been in contact with the person overseas. He goes by the name of “bookstreetdealer” in the underground community of selling controversial and damned illegal books that are not meant for the public eye or for anyone to know they exist. He sends me a copy of one of these books that’s written in a language I don’t understand other than probably Sigmund Freud. With it a small note Is clipped to one of the pages that incites ways to make someone psychologically torture themselves without lifting a finger based off personality traits of individuals. He trusts that I know what do with it, and he’ll get back in contact with me when the news puts out its narrative on why certain CEO’s are all of a sudden are out of commission for health reasons. I did take an open of the book, and the first personality quiz person to appear is one I know all too well…Morgan Everett._

_I nearly did backflips._


	4. Black Walls Vol 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul burns eggs and Sarif burns himself.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_A partnership between Rand and Everette announced itself today. Not officially on TV, but through my secret e-mail account. My out of the country informant told me so. I sound crazy saying that. He’s not wrong. I do have a secret e-mail where I try to keep track of things that I know the illuminati don’t have any access to. My inbox is always empty, and I am proud to say I am a hermit for it. Minus “Bookstreetdealer” who I will be calling BSD for now on. Sounds like a name this guy came up with from having a new form of constipation a while ago or just wanted to mess with anyone that has access to their account. Why am I engaging myself with these clearly unwell people? Oh yeah, my son is dead. I need to write this down to constantly remind myself that this is all my fault and I surely hate my life._

_Maybe I should’ve mentioned at the beginning of the previous paragraph an e-mail came attached to the book. I tend to leave out small details, because I am not sure if I am making any “got ya!” moments while wearing my best suit of face. My acquaintances from the good old days say my pranks are a habit that will get me killed within a social circle. Can’t say I blame anyone for thinking these things. I do love a good immoral surprise when the benefit of mankind comes knocking on my doorstep._

_Got ya! I don’t answer while wearing my bathrobe._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_If anyone bothered to notice per my last entry sarcasm is not my noticeable forte. How convenient, Rand came on the TV today to talk about the future of his company due to the pandemic of a rapidly growing disease of gray and death. He sat next to the computer-generated fake bimbo and he looked really nervous. Not the sweating kind or gulping of the Adam’s apple kind, but the subtle fidgeting of the fingers over one another kind. I’ve met this man before during business meetings about future partnerships, and he always came off as a man that knows what he’s doing. Body structure and presentation always speaks his volumes of business tone. There’s a slip here when the thumbs didn’t interlock. He waited for something to be said or some sort of action to happen. Almost with a look of glee. I hope no one else caught onto it, but I have a feeling someone did. He shifted his eyes to the right when Everett’s face came on the screen in a breaking news alert._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I should be glad that Everett is dead. I would’ve been glad if Everett didn’t talk into the camera positioned in front of his hospital bed. Disappointed my plan didn’t work. I went far and beyond to discretely find me a translator for this fucking book, and it turned out it’s a quiz not on Everette but of Rand. How could this switch have happened? The psychological profiles matched with the photograph, and the narcissism of wanting me to get into a buttfucked meeting is as plain as day. I had all the plans worked out. Everything from massaging his massive ego I statistically planted on his shoulders to lighten his already light as a feather weight. I whispered discreet nothings of how I am failing as a person, and I could use all the help in the world to promote a false ideology into the fake news network that would bring the spotlight away from the insignificant news companies onto his. I am about to play the reverse DARVO part perfectly. I even had plans to make sure the tears were authentic. Cutting my leg while sitting down with a knife under the table wouldn’t sit well with my first-aid kit. I really suck at stitching myself up._

_The book really had its own “got ya!” moment. BSD e-mailed me back after I complained to them about the mistake they had made. They apologized for it, and said they were in a rush to get it to me that they didn’t have time to quadruple check every single piece of writing and persons face sent through the mail. I e-mailed them back saying never to contact me again for risking the future of my life. I expected a response right back. I never received one. As angry as I’ve become, I didn’t throw the book away like I wanted to, but I became a delusional idiot in thinking my life has a future._

“My eggs are burning.” She scares Paul by peering over his shoulder, whispering about her food in his ears.

Paul jumps back and quickly rushes to the stove and turns it off. “Shit. I am sorry your food is burned. Do you still want some chocolate milk or how about a bowl of grownup cereal?” He turns the fan on above to get rid of the burnt smell before his fire alarm goes off. This is not the morning he had in mind when he wanted to impress the woman that’s here for the free food.

“No thanks. The chocolate syrup didn’t do anything to deserve your punishment.” She sets a bag of containers down on the kitchen counter. “Grab some plates. I went to one of the diners to pick up breakfast.”

Paul sighs and does as he’s told. “Leave it to the woman to know I would burn anything that’s not water.”

“If you have some PAM spray on you, I could show you how to burn water.” She winks at him as she shoves the open container of food on his plate. “Scrambled eggs, hash browns with ketchup, and a side of cheese grits.”

“So much starch.” He leaves out the comment that he’s really not into this kind of southern comfort food, but the smoked sausage links is making his mouth water. “Ok, screw what I just said. Let me take a stab at those links!”

She chuckles and sits down with her plate consisting of eggs and cheese with sausage patties and a small cup of sliced bananas. Paul gives her a mocked horror of shock that she’s eating fruit that’s been cut up by a grown-up on a different caliber aka the cook. “Don’t be surprised. These are all for me. I might save you the purple grapes from the bottom, yah? Great.” She picks up a piece of banana and flicks it at him.

He flinches away when it hits the middle of his forehead. “How kind of you.” He opens the book again and starts his reading in silence. Ignoring the fact that he’s thirsty and wants some damn orange juice or southern sweet tea to wash down this heavy breakfast.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I did receive an e-mail a couple of days later. Around the same time frame the AI news fake lady barks out her usual breaking news story. Rand is dead and all I have to say is that fuck you to whoever sent me a smiley face emoji as their response and the horse they came in on._


	5. Black Walls Vol 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysteries are revealed over sandwiches.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Off with his head. Rand is dead. The original BSD is also dead. What a rhyme for the Queen of Hearts. I hate it. Everything is mocking me from these new photo’s I received of my son from the morgue in this despicable e-mail. I told them to never send me another one. They didn’t listen to me. Attached files of unlabeled vials of what I am assuming is of my son’s blood. I said to stop sending me e-mails or I would block them. Like the glutton of checking that I am I received another one with a photo of a crying scientist. I couldn’t see her face. Her hands are covering the important facial details. The hair clip holding back her hair from getting in her face looked familiar._

_I’ve been bamboozled. I almost did block and hide my IP. I received a new e-mail from BSD to tell me their old e-mail had been compromised. I don’t know if I should trust this one. I need to run traces, but I am afraid of some newly updated VPN that would hide this under something from Antarctica or some other bullshit. I told the user to prove that this isn’t some kind of sick joke. I should’ve logged off immediately. Not give into a fury of anger. They sent me an attached filed, and I stared at it for a few moments before opening it. I needed to get myself together. I regretted it._

She looks over Paul’s shoulder to see he’s staring at a picture of a deceased man with curly short black hair lying in a bloody chair with a knife in his chest. Looks like to be in some sort of underground stone area with medical supplies in the background. “Oh look, you finally got to the page of my father! Interesting no? He’s the reason I am here right now, eating your sandwiches.” Lunchtime came around and she went out to get them more subs.

“You’re here for revenge.” Paul dogears the page and sets it off to the side. “I should’ve known your ulterior motive.” How cliched. Something he doesn’t get out of, and he learns that multiple people are dead due to deception.

She shrugs, wiping her hands of the honey mustard dressing that spread all over her fingertips. “Yes, I do want revenge. The pieces will come together all the same when you figure out the package.” She’s not pressuring Paul at all. Doesn’t want to be the only one to get her hands dirty. Needs someone else that doesn’t make her look conspicuous. Add these thoughts on the table of obvious checks and balances.

Paul deadpans his question, “You want me to blow something or someone up?”

“Not precisely.” He’s only halfway there. She does want him to trigger something, but it’s not what he’s thinking. “The man that wrote this did some back traces from the e-mails and believe me finding them didn’t pose an easy picnic.” She waves her hand off at him.

Paul rubs his forehead in frustration. “Ok, so you know who it is, then spill it. I am tired of beating around this symbolic bush. Just get straight to the point.”

“Read the next diary entry to answer your own question.” She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ears. Clearly trying to brush off whatever intention her posture his posing. “I want to finish this sandwich.”

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_The next day Stanton Dowd’s stocks have risen and gained a certain percentage of assets off Rand’s company. Almost 60%. His cold will state that the entire shipment container company merge with Dowd’s freighter company. What insider trading bullshit. I have yet to figure out what illegal imports are coming in and out. Nor am I aware of any ongoing investigation. I am afraid there won’t be one due to a third player that is smirking on the inside, sitting on their throne with their crown of lies placed crookedly on their head while thinking about how much wine they’re going to buy for themselves and their high school sweetheart when this is all over._

_I am afraid I am going to be six feet under with a crown of thorns hammered into my skull by the end of the year._

Paul closes the book again and takes a deep breath. Slowly releasing the anxiety and built-up tension. He recalls Dowd going financially broke a few years later, and his eyes shoot open in realization. He stares at his new friend with horror. “You want me to help you kill Page?”

“No. I didn’t say that.” She pulls out the circular button from the package. “We’re going to blow up something, but it’s not going to be another human being. They’re too easily replaceable in this kind of work.”

Paul rolls his eyes with exasperation. “Yes, because replacing the world’s biggest asshole is so easy. Next we can hang signs around our necks that say we’re terrorist and here to steal the ambrosia shipments to give to the poor.”

“Almost succeeded there.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “But no. As much as I like to be a martyr there, the governments will only tear us down, because money and power have taken over the underfoot of poverty.”

Paul doesn’t answer her right away. He stares down at his barely touched sandwich to contemplate his next step. He could go back to the original thought of turning her in, arresting her for plotting an attack against a company of the American people. The repercussions will come after if she decides to rat him out to the police about housing a potential threat. They might try for a search warrant and find this diary. Nowadays he could blame neural mind control or someone plugging his brain into a computer to make his subconscious do things against his will. That’s an easy enough dishonorable discharge as a UNATCO agent without the prison sentence. He doesn’t want to think about how much his brother would disown him if his thoughts came to the light of the real enemy. He doesn’t even know who the real enemy is.

“Keep reading.” She covers the side of her face with her hand by propping her elbow up on the table. “You’ll find the next paragraph very interesting to you.”

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_A star of 12 years has been born from the hands of blood from my deceased son through the information window of his crying deceased ex. Thy name is Paul, and I can’t wait for him to read this story._


	6. Black Walls Vol 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hard truth is not hard to come by. It just comes in cold.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_How much value of information did I receive after watching the mysterious death of Page’s top scientist on national TV today? I should be relieved I am a sort of grandfather, but the kid’s biological sort of grandparents don’t know. Should they know? I don’t want to put them in danger. They’ve been through enough, and his grandmother is already having a tough time with her mental conditions. The stress and anxiety from her personality disorder would only push her over the edge to the point of being sent to the hospital in a coughing fit._

_I have a lot to think about. The splicing of DNA, the trials, when did all this take place, and where there more like him? No doubt he’s immune to any syndrome of augmentation defects. All these papers here, showing what Paul is. This is astounding that even a tiny blood sample made it passed the lab security. Serious undercover work from her. Unfortunately, I have a choice to make her for the future of the boy. Morals of people that have to know about their grandchild’s existence have to be pushed aside for the greater good of Paul Denton’s health and safety. Just know whoever is reading this, Megan Reed didn’t sacrifice herself in vain to protect someone close to my son’s heart. Even if he didn’t know of his existence._

_Someone please tell my sons grandparents if they’re still around. Their names are Arthur and Margie Jensen. They live in Detroit, Michigan USA at xx address. Please._

_Please._

Paul bites his lip and closes his eyes, closing the book for now. He goes to lookup the address the journal states on his computer to see the house in question has been abandoned for quite some time and in a shape of despair. The last occupants were the ones mentioned and had passed away five years after this journal entry; completely unaware of his own existence. His heart aches. He would’ve had grandparents that would love him for him. He has a strangely unnamed second biological father that feels like he came from a plot of a comic book, minus the healing factor and roid rage. This all shouldn’t make sense to him. He should be in denial, question every alleged action written, throw the book at the woman that keeps coming into his home, anything! But he doesn’t. He just wants a drink to forge the heartache and wet tears.

“If you’re having an existential crisis, save it for later. You have to be strong for yourself, Paul.” She sits down next to him and hands him a cup of coffee. “Two creams and some sugar for you. I know you have work today, and I want you go to in with a look of determination.”

He takes one of the stirrers from a container he keeps on the counter and pokes at the contents in the mug. “Did they truly not know?”

“Your grandparents? No. They didn’t. No funeral for their son either. They died not knowing what happened to him, and there’s absolutely no next of kin to pass what he knew down to. Well, other than you of course, but they wouldn’t have known that.” She tiredly looks at her own cup. Telling the truth is hard and sometimes a bold choice has to be made to get the other to understand his emotional inner reasoning. She hates thinking this is helpless, like her own decision her mother made to get away from her father after his death. She squeezes her glass till her knuckles turned white. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. After this is over you should visit their gravestones.”

“You would know where they are?” Paul adds another cap of cream to his coffee. Not strong enough for him in this state with the weight of depression on him.

She frowns. Deep in her thoughts for a moment, picturing the face of her lovely defiant mother that always scolded her for trying to get into things she clearly knew not to get into. Mostly the cookie jar, but she always gave in when the pouting look appeared. Takes after her father too much in the: I get my way, or I die looking cute department. “Yes. They’re buried next to my mother around that address. The person who sent you the diary made sure my mother lived comfortably after her escape from Prague. You should see the plots. Lavenders everywhere that are still being tended to today with Sarif’s leftovers.”

“Sarif? As in David Sarif?” Bingo. That’s the name of the host of this game after death is.

But she knew that this wouldn’t click with him right away. “Duh. Who do you think this diary belongs to? You thought a billion other people with DS as their initials would magically leave this for you after their death?”

He growls at her. “Your sarcasm makes no sense. Just spit out what you have to say to me or get out.”

She lets out a deep sigh. “Ok, genius. My mother worked for David Sarif as a pilot. She would chauffeur him and his employees around on top secret missions or on the good days of plain boring board meetings. Now, this is where we get to the birds and the bees. One day she flew to Prague to deliver a toy airplane in a cereal box to-“

Paul holds up his hand to stop her right there. “I get it. You left Prague, lied to me you flew in recently from Europe, have secretly hog tied the original driver to the truck you came in, and left them to suffer from starvation and dehydration in a ditch somewhere.”

She smirks. “Partially true. I did leave Prague about many moons of years ago, I flew here from Detroit with this secret package, kept my original accent, yah? and no, I had a legitimate job. I just…got fired recently.” She leaves out the detail about getting fired this morning. That’s how recent.

“Wonderful. I’m harboring a future fugitive.” Paul pinches the bridge of his nose and opens the book again. He just wants to immerse himself into the next page of insanity.

“Yeah, about that. I need a place to stay for a couple of days…weeks…months…a lifetime? Is your guest room clean?” She gives him a toothy coffee-stained grin and winks at him.

He mumbles, “Brush your teeth,” and then hides his blushing face in the book.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I made sure everything is ok with Paul financially. Wasn’t easy tracking down one of his…”teachers”…aka: pre-agents of some newly founded front that I really should know about that I forced myself to forget what they were called for secretive purposes. Safe to say the music teacher didn’t like my augmented hand aggressively causing him breathing discomfort around his windpipe. What a shame. But good news! I now have a new informant!_


	7. Black Walls Vol 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Informats are a trip.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I gave my informant a name today since he won’t tell me his real one. His name is Al. Al has been really gracious with me, and the turtlenecks he wears to hide those beautiful corrupt capillaries go well with his skin tone. Good man for that and keeping me updated on Paul’s health, money situation, and if his new-old family are treating him well. Good news, journal! They’re continuing their wonderful charade of giving him all kind words and praises that he gets to eat two cookies for dessert tonight instead of one. I’m kidding. I sometimes have to write down jokes for myself to make sure I am still sane._

_Hah. I fool myself sometimes._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Today hasn’t been a good day. Al tells me that Paul’s parents are fighting over the status quo again. Saying that they can’t keep hiding this child truly from everyone. They want him to go out and have a normal life. Have normal friends that don’t come over acting like they’re from some horror movie where they pretend, they’re not going to stab him in the back once he spills his drink on the ground or throw him into one of the lakes surrounding Michigan. The father says the money is good enough to keep things going and this is what’s best for them to keep playing house. At least Paul wouldn’t have a record or try anything stupid. Paul is just someone they have to look after for a couple of more years till he’s shipped off to training school to become a special agent. The mother wants nothing to do with the off the books handlers, and that this façade would have the real world cast him out once he’s free of them. She wants to give him back to his original parents. A real loving family. I wonder if she knows they’re dead. Must be because she ended up crying and collapsed from stress. I know how that feels._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I want to do something for Paul. His birthday has already come and gone and received all the best presents from his parents and false relatives with just as creepy smiles as the children that come over and play. Everything from the latest computer to console. Spoiled kid is having a blast playing those standalone games by himself. No one to play with or communicate online with. Would it be creepy if I send him a random friend request asking to try this new game that I’ve bought for my own entertainment purposes? Al says Paul isn’t allowed to play multi-player games. Drills into his head that single player are the only games that are in the range of existence and that there is nothing but bad people outside his house that will creep up on him like a child predator by pinging his location. Going by that thought, the situation does make me look like a weirdo, and someone that watches this house would have easy access to their location if the address gets out. I have to figure out something else to get him that’s not going to sound like I am a stalker or blow anyone’s cover. But what?_

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I’m stumped. I have no ideas. I am pulling my hair out trying to figure out what to give a prepubescent boy for their late birthday that doesn’t blow anyone’s house up for figuring out who they are. Al says to try this old technology called: books. Real funny guy that one is, but he’s not wrong. Books are things that can blend in any setting, and for the lack of better taste to the current collection, all Paul receives are books from workshop completion guides to math puzzles. Where are the ones about fantasy or science fiction? I’m afraid to ask what kind of games he plays on that StationPlay 7 of his. God, I hope it’s nothing to do with biometric scans or learning how to whittle. Maybe I could sneak in a real popular fantasy book into this psychological book that serves me no purpose whatsoever other than to torment my waking nightmare that I have used this to kill an especially important colleague in a very unintentional way. Al has no idea what I even rambled to him about. I’m glad, because I don’t know what I am going on about either. Guess the psychological book is doing its job by driving me to the brink of insanity. Stick this to the man!_

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Longest day ever today. The weather turned bad with thunderstorms. Perfect weather to just sit back and relax in front of an open fire with a fine bottle of whiskey and listen to the annoying Fake newscaster about how the world is ending and a terrorist attack on the Status of Liberty has taken place...again…This is the second one this year. Maybe I should’ve thrown the book at the idiot who killed democracy instead of the fingers pointing to the sliced off head of Lady Liberty._

_Justice needs a drink today for she is blind to her sadness._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Al tells me Paul is engrossed in the psychological torment of reading up each page of the persons mind and torture methods they could use to further implicate on any enemies that might harm him. I asked Al where he would get such a notion that someone is threatening Paul’s life? Then he told me that the assumption shouldn’t be going through my own head on something that’s not there. Paul’s just being a child and writing out some things that don’t make any sense to anyone. That reminds me, I don’t remember if I took out the fake tabs or the pictures of each illuminati member before shipping it off with Al. I’m sure I did._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Wrong. I am dead wrong. The book came back to me along with a remarkably interesting bloody parcel of a head. A message had been shoved in his mouth that read for me not to interfere in someone else’s business, but the handwriting doesn’t match anywhere near that of the current signature from the men and women that I know. Yes, the penmanship has a feminine touch, but nothing concrete is sticking to me. I need to do some research._

_Rest in Peace, Al. You let life get far too ahead of yourself._

She slaps her knee at the last line. “Sarif’s a trip! Don’t you think? In his last moments of sanity he still has the ability to make jokes, just like yourself when you tried to tell me no to staying with you.”

“And I am still telling you no.” Paul closes the book and crosses his arms snorting. “I don’t even remember reading the book or receiving such a stupid thing! And for the record the games I played were old 2D ones!”

She gives him a mocking pout. “Oh! Yah? Well excuse me Mr. 2D Side scroller!”

“I am being serious here! I really never received a book like that! Or whatever Fantasy nonsense Sarif tried to bait me with! The only thing that he’s right about in that entry is: yes, his gift would’ve been creepy!” Paul gets up and goes to the kitchen to clean his plate.

“Wait! You’re serious?” She grabs her own plate to help clean and dry. “If you never received a gift then who do you think Sarif is talking about?”

Paul pauses mid wash. “I don’t know.” He casts his eyes downwards, reminiscing about a strange woman with her brown pinned up in a hairclip with thick glasses and the way she dressed…”I just remember my music teacher being replaced that day with some newly exchanged one from France. I think her name was Delara.”


	8. Black Walls Vol 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has a way of flirting with secrets.

She looks up at Paul with mere confusion. Feeling like she has heard this name from somewhere before. Not from her mother. From something far more eerie and haunting that no longer exists from the other part of the world. Disbanded a few months after their top agent died. No, that’s incorrect. After more than one of their top agents have died under mysterious circumstances. An underground basement fire at a terribly placed shipping company that held incompetent yelp reviews. Hardly any survivors made it out unscathed. Some died days later from severe burns. She remembers reading this from the outdated old news network of a PICUS tabloid. Memories are clicking together. Slowly, piece by piece. She’s picturing the survivors faces. A few technicians and the only woman that’s the forces top psychiatrist. Her name being-

“Delara Auzenne. She’s my ex-music teacher now. Played the violin really well and tried to get me to play it. I hated it. Being the stubborn teenager I wanted to be I chose to play video games or go outside and wonder what the world beyond my backyard had become.” Paul crosses his arms and stares off at the wall in front of him. “She’s not a good woman. Always has that hidden ulterior motive behind that shady voice of hers. She pretends she’s your friend, but when your back is turned-“

“She strikes like a snake when you least expect it with the most calming voice.” Snakes usually send out signal warnings when an enemy of a threatening nature comes too close. “Or is that not the correct analogy to use here?”

Paul tiredly looks up at the clock that strikes on the hour signaling the day is almost over. Loud ringing echoing through the silence that’s descended upon his thoughts of realizations. He waits for the clock to finish its gesture before continuing. “Not quite. Cats strike first and ask questions later. They just hide deeper in the grass and more grated to the floor.”

She stands next to the clock and runs her hand across the glass case that holds the clicking sound of the pendulum moving back and forth. “Your grandfather clock…so beautiful. My mother used to have something like this. She hated when it chimed right on the hour. Says the damn thing kept her up at night.” She laughs at the old memory of her mother asking the deceased to fix it to make it less loud. She amused by the story. The way her mother told her stories made things seem like they came from a past life. A taste of normalcy that everyone wants back.

Paul laughs. “Let me guess? She used it as firewood when the cold winter of 2035 happened?” Joking. There are always at least three cold winters a year up in the north.

“She wishes. Sarif asked his son to fix it in some way. He agreed.” She moves away from the clock and places her butt down on the worn-out couch. She grimaces when a spring pokes her behind. Quickly getting up she checks to see if there are any unnecessary holes in her jeans and lets out a sigh of relief when there are none. She couldn’t afford to poke her face inside the nearest mini mall just to buy extra clothes that she doesn’t have emergency money rations for. “Please, if I am going to stay here, consider refurnishing. If you can afford a hotel over this place you definitely can afford repairs.” 

“You’re not sleeping over here, so I personally don’t care about your feelings.” He doesn’t mean to sound harsh. She’s trying to stifle her way into his home without a proper discussion of why, and they’ve only known each other for a week. He doesn’t feel comfortable letting a complete stranger that is acting suspicious with a detonator like button being held up in his home. His boss could start suspecting things and send over UNATCO agents to check out his apartment. He’s already received threatening e-mails about raids from his landlord to pay for this month’s rent, he doesn’t need this headache on top of him too.

She rolls her eyes at the audacity of Paul’s deadpan voice and carelessness when he should be passed the trust issues concept. “I am putting facts above my feelings thank you very much!” She kicks at Paul’s chair in anger, grunting at the pain of her big toe.

Paul yells at her, “Then give me a reason for you to stay! Or better yet, a reason to carry out any ridiculous plan that you may have!”

“Because these men that died in vain deserve a peaceful rest in the void!” She yells back and throws an incredibly old tabloid in front of him. The screen is cracked and is barely holding itself together. “The digital newspaper company has changed their ideals and name since then, but the facts still don’t change! You can’t change the truth of underground evidence of the past, Paul! But you can help this current course of event lies for the victims and save this world’s future!”

Paul sees faces and names of Interpol agents from all over the world that have died under mysterious circumstances. He scrolls down till he stops at a section from the Prague district that has a picture of the male victim from the journal. Same augmented man with little to no information, no name listed for scarce reasons. He scrolls up a bit to see his superior’s faces are listed with names and who they’re survived by. The director survived by ex-husband and two children, the anti-terrorist leader with no next of kin known, a underling quartermaster survived by a good friend from the marines, and the list continues. All these people that Sarif’s son worked with are all here listed, and some don’t even have a family to tell this their story to. Paul grits his teeth and goes back to Sarif’s son face.

“Curious now? I am sure the man you’re looking at would be happy if you avenged his comrades. None of them deserved this pain and suffering.” She takes the digital script from him and tucks it away in her coat. “Adam Jensen, the guy you’re going to avenge, would be proud to know that you share his DNA.”

Paul can’t help the next thoughts that cross his mind. A cramped basement area with electrical wires everywhere connected to servers hidden behind makeshift panels, and then the screams of burning adult bodies pop into his head. He can’t shake the screams as his whole world around him is becoming blurred as he and other small ones are being carried through flames. He clutches his head. Coughing fits and people dropping to the floor trying to get out. They’re not the faces of the ones from the tabloids, but of his own comrades that got themselves caught in a building fire. They’re the only ones that got out alive. Except there’s one difference with the age group. His own cries were that of an infant. 


	9. Black Walls Vol 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Names are learned, asses are threatened, and nobody's taking any names.

“Paul!” She drops what she’s doing to comfort the man currently sitting on his knees trying to pull himself together. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re reliving a bad memory! Hold on! I’ll get you some medicine!” She doesn’t get a chance to pull away from in time. He has his hands on her wrist, grasping for a breath of fresh air. She’s unsure of what to do. People react differently when entering a state of panic, and if she goes in for a hug, would he push her away? She bites her lip and waits for any further action of movement or any clear verbal consent of comfort.

Paul’s breathing doesn’t cease back to normal. He can’t voice out his thoughts of how his skin feels like it’s burning, because his heartrate is erratic to the point it’s trying to burst out of his chest. He can’t think clearly. Everything in his mind is racing, his eyes are constantly moving at a pace his vision can’t keep up with him, and the screams. Fuck the screams wouldn’t stop.

She takes a chance. Pulling her arm away she wraps her arms around Paul’s neck and brings him in for a silent hug. She chooses not to speak; afraid she’ll say the wrong things. Afraid she’ll make the situation worse when time goes by. And she chose wisely. Time slowly ticks on by, and Paul’s exhaustion finally catches up to him, and his grasp on her arms slack. He coolly moves away from her to stand up, refusing to take the hand that’s offered to him. He makes his way to the chair and sits down. A glass of water is offered to him after a few minutes of settling in. He appreciates it and downs it immediately. Feeling better after getting something to hydrate in his system after the sweat.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” She sits down on the sofa across from him, ignoring the pain in her butt from the uncomfortableness of the density. He doesn’t answer her, only stares at the empty glass in his hands, making the leftover water droplets swirl around the cup. She bites her lip again and leans back with her arms crossed, trying to think of the right things to say here. Reliving a tale of her own experience might put a bigger strain in their relationship of whatever this is if he she even makes an attempt of trying to make it look like she’s talking about herself, but also at the same time, if she tries to talk about something that would make him feel better would take away what his problem is at hand; and he might not like the change of subject. What’s the best course of action towards Paul? She doesn’t know enough information to make any sort of judgement

After a few agonizing more moments of listening to the clock, Paul looks up with his tired raccoon eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I want to apologize for my behavior. Not speaking, I couldn’t focus and-“

“Don’t worry about that. I am just glad you’re feeling better.” She presses her hand to Paul’s forehead, checking to see if she needs to grab a cold washcloth. “Your body temperature doesn’t feel as hot, but I am not in your body so move your mouth and work with me here. Do you need me to run a bath for you? Sitting even in warm water will help cool down the burning sensation and heart rate.”

“That won’t be necessary. I just need to sit here and shut my eyes. You can see yourself out. I need to clear myself and do some of my own research.” He’s aware of the cruelness in his voice, but the understanding needs to come into communication at some point of her daily visitations. He looks up to see the hurt look spread in her eyes and that mouth of hers turn thin lipped. He goes to take back what he said, but she holds up her hand to stop him from speaking.

“I get it. You don’t like that I am here, Paul. Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be, but Sarif’s will in this book is-“ She’s interrupted by Paul’s raised voice.

“Do you hear yourself right now? ‘Sarif’s will’ this, ‘Sarif’s will’ that. I personally don’t give a damn about his will! Not when you just had a flashback of your entire life being a bigger lie than you realize!” Paul throws his glass down on the worn carpet. It doesn’t break and only rolls under the wooden coffee table, leaving a small splatter of water droplets from the initial impact. She goes to get some paper towels from the kitchen to clean up the mess. He doesn’t attempt to stop her kindness.

She returns a few minutes later with a plate of sliced oranges in one hand. “Eat this while I fix your emotional mess.” She bitterly sets it down on his lap and does the job she said she’s going to do, not even sure why she wants to please the idiot. “Let me know when I can talk to you again like a decent human being.”

He feels guilty and if he appeared to be hungry, he no longer felt the desire to indulge in the delicious treat. “Stop.” She looks up at him from her crouched position with a questioning gaze. Her Mouth is ready to go into stern talk mode. Paul eases his next words on the side of caution. “Don’t clean up the mess. I’ll take care of it. I want you to go home if you can. Any home you know you’re welcomed to. You don’t enough about me to make any sort of judgement, and I don’t even know your name.”

“Fair enough on the name part.” She doesn’t retaliate back about the little to known information. “You deserve to know my name if we’re going to go back home together.” She straightens herself out and shushes Paul before he could ask anymore questions about her condescending behavior. “My name is Pea.”

“Just ‘P’?” Not irregular for a person of her greatness caliber to go by a single Latin letter, but given her parent’s heritage, she figured they would go for something closer to them. Then again, he doesn’t know her parent’s antics, what they’re like, and what the name symbolizes. Things in situations could also have an impact early on in a child’s life where different identities have to be crafted in order to protect the ones they loved, or they were really drunk one night-

“You have that overthinking look on your face. No, not like the letter ‘P’. More like the vegetable. ‘Peas in a pod’ kind of deal.” She winks at him, swaying her hips side to side, dancing along to the silence of the room. “I like it. Short, three letters, and ‘Pea Koller’ has a funny and punny ring to it, don’t you agree? Like Pina Colada?”

He lets out a short breath of laughter. Better than most names he’s heard in his lifetime. At least she doesn’t carry the weight of a literal Dent on her shoulders. Denton sounds like a new metric ton scale had just been discovered by some top European Philosophers from the early 1800’s. He likes how he can amuse himself during these tiring times of dealing with another person’s company that’s not consistently his brothers. He casts his glaze downwards again; his hands play with the food in his lap. So her name is: Pea. He scrunches his nose, wanting to roll it off his tongue with seriousness.

“Pea.” He tries again. “Peeeeaaaaa.”

“Don’t let me stop you from going to the restroom if you must go.” She waves his hand off at him. “I prefer not to clean up your mind.”

Paul snorts. He’s not the one who’s mind is currently in the gutter of crude jokes. “You will find out to know bathroom humor is not my kind of humor. I do…like the name. It’s sweet sounding.”

“If you start calling me ‘sweet pea’ I will make you asphyxiate on an orange peel.” She snatches a slice and pops it in the air flawlessly landing into her mouth. Sweet juicy victory when he backs down with his next joke. She turns back to him, her tone changing to a more relaxed voice. “Please finish your snack. I will take my leave now and figure something out.”

Paul studies her worried face for a moment. He thinks he understands what she’s trying to convey with the sudden shift in facial features and hopes his stab in the dark is on point. “Your home is being watched.”

Her face doesn’t shift. “Nothing gets passed your high intellect.”

“One could say that about my hindsight of following a simple command of not causing property or casualty damage while out on a mission.” An attempt at dark humor leaves them both chuckling. He’s glad to hear something other than the deafening clock. He goes to grab another slice to see that his plate is empty. A surprise look shines on his face when he turns up to see Pea’s mouth is full of food that puts the hibernating squirrel to shame. He lets out another chuckle. “Alright. You got me. I’ll humor you with my memories and you can sleep on the springy couch.”

Her face twists to a grimace of the thought of sleeping on that rusty old tetanus shot trap. “You shouldn’t have.” She’s going to eat Paul’s next meal before he could blink next time or put mayonnaise in his shampoo and conditioner bottle.

“I’m kidding. I have an old air mattress I’ll get retrieve for you.” He stands up and makes his way to the closet in his bedroom while Pea waits outside his room and pulls out a case containing a in favorable conditioned old-style hair dryer applied mattress. “You’ll have to supply the beauty supplements.”

Pea thanks him and pauses momentarily to gather in her head a list of supplies she’ll need to get from the store. No doubt her bank account is still intact, and she could still do withdrawals. Wouldn’t want anyone to notice how too on the nose she’s being with the subtle snooping and watching. She could also return home right now, but the intention of a hitman coming up in her bedroom in the middle of the night worried her. Too many possible outcomes to take an unnecessary risk of horror just by going to sleep in her own home.

Paul takes the opportunity to help Pea with her train of thought, “How about dinner tonight at 6PM? Nothing too fancy or fast food. I know a nice restaurant that just opened downtown near Battery Park we could go to. We can discuss Sarif’s next journal entry together. This way the people watching you and possibly hanging out around my door will get off our backs and realize that we’re just lovebirds doing lovebird things.”

“You had me at free food.” She leaves Paul’s place and returns back to her own adobe to get ready for their date.

“Wait.” He gently takes her wrist to stop her in her tracks. “I…before you go. Please listen to my story.” He motions back to the chair positioned in front of him. She props her behind down and moves the chair across the carpet for better listening. Paul ignores the horrible rug burning sound.

“Please tell me what you remember.” She leans forward with her chin propped up on her knuckles.

He thanks her first for the way she handled the panic attack situation with him, letting her know that her drawn conclusion to how he reacts to a person’s touch and words were not right on the dot, but happy that she didn’t run out the door like most of his allies had done in the past. That’s all he wanted from her. Just for her to stand there and make sure he didn’t feel like he’s alone. She nods in affirmation and confirms if this happens again, she’ll do exactly just that. Be there for him if possible. Then he tells her his story.


	10. Black Walls Vol 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fake date with real plans.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Rain, rain, and more rain. The sky is crying its prissy time of the month red again. I wish it spit out radioactive acid and end this miserable existence of human life. Nothing good is coming out of my brain with new ideas anymore, and nobody is willing to hear them after everything is falling apart in the United States. Feels hopeless to keep up a pretend sense of sober living. I know my country is strong and can pull itself together, but the people can’t be mended overnight unless a strict sum of money is involved; because we all know money is the true power of the brain. Not today though. Today Lady Justice still weeps, and people are still dying on the streets begging for a heroin ounce of money. I still see the constant death stares from people every day. I don’t even try to hide my face anymore when I go to the convenient store for some quick and easy access booze. I buy the cheapest brand I can find, and it’s enough for me. Not enough for the drunk trash of people that come up to me and demand that I make my own moonshine and piss water instead of taking theirs. They say I have no right. I honest to God just want to piss in their shoes for spitting their germ words right back at me._

_I am drunk right now. I’m a real lame ass poet._

“Earth to Paul!” Pea snaps her fingers in front of her dates face, bringing the startled man back to the present-day reality. She points to the poor waiter with her eyes that has been very patient so far.

He flushed with embarrassment and quickly places the book under his thigh and looks over the menu. He’s tempted to ask him what the recommended soup of the day is just to make things less awkward between all three of them. The waiter continues to remain standing there with his annoyed expression and audibly lets out a sigh of discomfort when he sees the “what are the specials of the evening?” well-attuned facial feature.

Pea quickly apologies for the behavior being shown here tonight, “I am so sorry! He’s sometimes loses himself in a really good book behind every menu.” She says this as if this is a normal thing for all her dates to do. She wouldn’t be too far off. Her mother did say that about her father when he finds something miniscule about engineering, he would lose himself in every possible textbook he could find. “You could say he’s lost his nose to the books?” She gives him a Cheshire smile in hopes the good humor suedes him to give them a little bit more time before they get kicked out for taking up seats that could be used to seat other willing customers that are assumed to have money.

“Very well.” The waiter closes his notebook that is used to take down orders and begrudgingly goes to another couple that’s more than enthusiastic enough to order the fish dinner. “Very good choice, ma’am. Would you like to see our wine list? We have some of the finest champagne here in the city and let me follow you up with some recommendations from our dessert menu if you and your date prefer to save a moment for later.”

Paul glares at the waiter, who sees this and gives him a sly smirk. “He’s taunting me with that stereotype accent and thinks I can’t pay for our meal.”

“Paul, honey, this isn’t a real date. I will go Dutch if you let me.” Pea winks at him. “Now please order the cod when he gets back. He’s subtly hinted to you that the fish is to die for.”

“Now he’s contemplating on murder.” Paul closes the menu and places it on top of Pea’s. They have a few moments till the waiter returns to take their order, so he believes now would be a good time to get straight to the point. He shifts his eyes around the room, looking for anything out of place. Being with UNATCO for several years, that feels like several lifetimes, he knows what to look out for. Any agents reading the wrong time of day paper, shoes on waitresses that don’t match their working environment, anyone acting suspicious with fake conversations, or an everyday goer that’s occasionally staring at them. When he recognizes none of the usual patterns he sits back and relaxes his shoulders. “Ok. I think it’s safe to talk now. What is the game plan here? You gave me a button to sew onto this new suit I plan on wearing for our next date. What does the color resemble?”

Pea picks up on their speaking in code and quickly plays along for her own entertainment with benefits towards a second pretend date. “It’s for the next date I have planned. A party that’s going to have a lot of music and dancing. Certain people are going to be there attending this formal affair.”

“I thought you said this didn’t have to do with blowing someone’s legs off on the dance floor?” Paul is doing his best to hold in the shaking of his breath. She promised him that this wouldn’t involve murder or bloodshed. He clenches his knees, thinking about how to phrase the next question. She looks at him with confidence that her word of not killing anyone still stands. After a moment, he shyly looks away, making the scene play out more realistically in his favor. “I will end up popping all my buttons. Last time didn’t work out well for me. I almost had myself thrown into jail for indecent exposure and being drunk in public.”

“Yes, I don’t want you making the satire onion front page again.” Pea playfully rolls her eyes before taking his hand into hers. He’ll have to tell her about the last imprisonment he ended himself up in due to a mishap. “You have nothing to worry about. Those colorful buttons will just put a damper on someone’s mental capacities. That’s how cool you’re going to look.” 

Paul is nervous to ask which persons mental state they’re going to attack first or if there’s just one target. He assumes that there’s something implemented already in the button or someone has certain neural augmentations that can be easily infected with any remote transmitter if they let their guard down. Wait, things start clicking in place with the last thought. “Will this person’s buttons bed red?”

“Oh, yes, most definitely. Someone with very red buttons to match their dark blue swagger.” Pea grins cheekily and pulls up a man’s face on her phone. “He’s responsible for your outfit.”

Paul leans in to see a tired old looking man with long white hair tied up into a ponytail, a few loose strands hang over his face. He looks like he has seen better days, and the smoker’s look has finally caught up with him. He frowns when he sees that it’s an obituary page from a local Detroit newspaper that lists his death date sometime of last month. Wonder what happened there? He scrolls a bit to see the cause of death to be lung cancer. He’s survived by no known next of kin, and only a few acquaintances have made some…interesting factoid comments about him. Something about cameras and refrigerator jokes. Times back then seem out of place with these kinds of inside jokes that bring a sense of dark decency to those who lack a comedic life.

“He knew my mother well. One of the people after my father’s death she sought refuge with.” Pea shifts uncomfortably in her seat and lets out a coughing signaling Paul she wishes to make way back to the previous subject as she places her phone back into her pocket. “So, you want to out button him or what?”

Paul doesn’t answer her right away. The waiter has made his return and this time demanding in the nicest tone that he has to take their order immediately or they will be escorted out of the building in order for the more favorable customers that are impatiently waiting for table in the lounge area. “Yes! Sorry. I like the cod with a side of pilaf rice and green beans with a glass of water, hold the lemon, thank you!” He hands over their menus after Pea orders.

Their drinks arrive a few minutes later by someone different. She cheerfully sets down each their glasses and makes sure each order is correct. Both confirm their order, and she prances off to the kitchen with her notepad. Paul sips on his water, finding out he’s not really thirsty. He opts in to just twirling the ice cubes with his straw, watching them making their clanking sounds with each stir. His eyes read of uncertainty and all the possibilities of this plan going sideways. “I thought you said we’re not going to break any buttons.”

“And I have kept my word since these buttons are too valuable to just let them fall apart on the spot. We’re merely just going to…crack them.” Pea looks over Paul’s shoulder to see the waiter staring at them from behind the hosts podium, cleaning a glass with a rag. “Let’s talk about something else. Do you think this chocolate cake is to die for like the guy right behind you is having? Oh man! His plate looks like it’s going to be cleaned out before his date can even get a bite!”

Paul’s eyes widen but doesn’t dare to look back. He unconsciously tucks the book farther under himself that he’s sitting on it. Grunting at the discomfort he adjusts himself and takes out his phone to talk to her. Texting her what has she seen. She keeps it brief just in case their phones were being tapped into. Describing that a hot guy standing behind him is checking her out. He holds back his snort and texts back that he wouldn’t be getting any tips and pointers from them tonight! Out of his bitterness for the way this agent has treated him and his date he says yes to her unanswered question. Pea finds it cute that Paul is taking this seriously for all the wrong reasons, and no one wonder his hot head gets him thrown out on the streets with his job. At least that’s what she likes to think his reaction would be.


	11. Black Walls Vol 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party is just getting started with its high-low technology and food fit for a couple of thieves.

“I feel out of place.” Paul whispers into Pea’s ear, eyeing the crowd nervously. They’re at an open-room party where anyone who’s anyone can attend. Page specifically requested this announcement to be placed on every station and newspaper within the state of New York. The only catch is that the party is that of a masquerade, to hide the proud of money shame. Something Pea failed to mention during their briefing of how their plan is going to go down till ten minutes ago when the limousine dropped the couple off. “I even had the matching buttons picked out to make our little metaphor more modest.”

Pea adjusts the porcelain mask on her face, making sure the special integrated eye feature covers up her natural eye color, and alternate any stance her eyes choose to take when validating an emotion if any person of interest were to recognize her. If that fails, she will kick it old school and wave a fan in front of her face to signal her bashfulness. “Be a dear and make sure your sharp eyes are that of hazel. Your blue sticks out too much. Only one person here is allowed to have that tone, and they’re not even his natural eye color.” She’s talking about Page, of course. His are red, but the way they shine off the wall that would turn into an icy blue with a simple stare is rather daring and alarming.

Paul does as she asks. A little click there, and they’re as natural as everyone else’s. Once fully inside, he takes the opportunity to look around the room, and adjusts the HUD lenses appropriately to sync with the layout of the building. “Page’s backstage office isn’t too far from here. How do you want to proceed with this? His bodyguards will suspect something if we get anywhere near the side entrances.”

“I had a look at the blueprints of this building this morning.” She gets a mocked reaction of millennial hysteria from Paul. She rolls her eyes and slightly annoyed at the falsehood claim and answers, “Yes, this building is that old, Paul. Blueprints did exist when you were born, grumpy mid-life crisis actor.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Paul smirks. When they go out to celebrate with mandatory drinks, he’ll bring up all the old school technology that Pea used to get what she desired. With the new technology that had came out over the past few decades, it only made sense to disconnect the older models for the newer ones. They opted-in for the older ones, because it’s less likely to be traced and the security systems wouldn’t be able to pick up on any older codes that no longer work in the network. As long as no one figures out how old their masks really are they’ll be fine. Pea insisted on a quick dye job, but they didn’t have much time to spare in that department. Hopefully, people will define them as a classy bunch with great taste for the old.

“I just hope that this old layout is still good. I have no idea how much this building has changed.” Yes, the building they’ve entered has seen wear and tear, but its also gone through a lot of remodeling. These things are not on the map. “Careful, Paul!” She stops him from going into the lady’s restroom. This is one of those changes. The restroom here used to be a storage closet now converted into a woman’s restroom.

Paul’s face is red with embarrassment. He purposely ignores the women going through the doors questioning glaze and murmurs. “I am not my brother.” He backs towards the men’s that’s supposed to be there, but this is where the storage room has moved to. He gets whacked in the head by a falling dustpan. “I should’ve seen this irony coming.” He rubs his head and closes the door. He regrets just using the HUD to help him around. Feels everything is an illusion. The people he’s seeing are real, but the painted picture looks like one of a setting sun instead of the dark and eerie night sky he’s grown accustomed to viewing.

Pea looks around the room to see who they’re dealing with, any recognizable faces. No surprise there are none within her vision. She can’t tell who anyone is by their masks and the outfits look the same: boring and classless infidelity, but that doesn’t mean she can’t tell where they stand in the social standard. Judging from the designs and looks, one is really wealthy with how many diamonds are encrusted around the eye holes or how much paint their kid put on them to make them look “cute” for the better term. The definition of underclass here is a broad spectrum. She scrunches her nose at the distaste of talk, judging others for their lack of money and creativity. “What’s their definition of ‘lack of funds’? Their daddy didn’t give them 1 million dollars in credit chips for their _Starterkick_ campaign?”

“Worry about more important things then glue and glitter. We all know these art projects will have that on them by the next of the night.” Paul taps his mask, turning off the eye shield when he’s in front of the right door. A sigh of relief that it’s not another lady’s restroom. “Pea, I have located the correct door, but there’s a guard blocking my way. Tall, an exceptionally fine tint of gold in his hair, and he’s staring directly at me wondering why I am talking to myself. Please hurry, I am sending you my location to your HUD.”

Pea subtly makes her way through the crowd, sending fake smiles and returning compliments and answers to those asking her questions about her outfit. She frowns when she arrives and sees who exactly is guarding the door. She recognizes that hue of egotistical color anywhere. “Paul, we may have a problem. I know who the guard is, and he doesn’t look very happy to see me. I knew I should have changed my hair color for this.”

“Relax. Grab a glass of champagne off the tray from one of the waiters. Don’t make yourself too nervous or they’re going to call security.” Paul goes over to the buffet table to help himself to a plate. “The food looks exceptional tonight. No finger sandwiches for once. I couldn’t tell you about the last meetings food. They’re so unbelievably poor they had to do dine in services catering.” He smiles at the patron guarding the door. He doesn’t flinch and keeps staring ahead, eyeing Pea suspiciously.

“Hey there! Long time no see!” An elderly woman wearing a simple black and gold mask that Paul doesn’t know rubs his back, pulling him away from the buffet. “Man, it’s been ages since I’ve met anyone from Jensen’s descendants! How about we talk? Right? Where’s your little precious Pea? It’s been ages since I’ve seen her chubby little face!”

Paul’s insides are screaming at him to pull away and run, grab Pea and get out. Their mission has been compromised and they’re only putting themselves in harm’s way or worse, the judicial path of treason. He doesn’t dare turn around due to the lather to stare at the guard and signal for help. Not that he would be able to see the pleading look of rescue. He lowers his voice in a whisper, “Who are you? What do you want from Pea and I?”

“Don’t worry, man. The guard is friendly. I work for him! Or I used to. He asked me to come over to make sure I keep you and that fine young lady of yours out of trouble.” She brings him to Pea, who’s sitting at one of the party tables. Her leg is bobbing up and down with anxiety. Paul holds his breath in anticipation, thinking this is an elaborate setup or prank. “Relax. I brought her here before claiming you, Paul. The name is Alex Vega, and I used to know your spliced donor. The guard Is my old boss. No, I won’t give you his name on the account you tried to kill him in the past. He wants me to take you around back, but I convinced him to let you two idiots eat first.”

Paul looks down at the plate he’s holding. Enough piled upon it for two or possibly four. Alex makes a joke that Paul is too busy eyeing other women dressed up like security to notice the extended line behind him and all the shell pieces from the shrimp he had made its way to the floor. He takes a deep breath in and exhales slowly, calming himself, and ridden himself of the other’s failed attempt at humor. He needs to think and gather any questions he has into a coherent thought before proceeding to the next step.

Alex sets an empty plate down in front of Pea. Paul piles some onto hers. “I do mean to help. Please, eat up and enjoy yourselves. This way, if you do get yourselves captured, you’ll have a full stomach till execution.” She chuckles out lout when none of her new partners laugh and all the color have drained from under their nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ease my dark sense of humor into this. I am stalling for time. My boss’s guards should be taking care of security as we speak, so-“ She stops talking mid sentence, looking off to the side, tapping her ear as if she’s trying to remember something from her youth. She turns back, a pleased smile graces her lips. “Good news. No time for eating. We can make our way to the back alley. Come, come. Don’t hesitate or you’ll not get another opportunity like this.”

Pea and Paul glance at each other worryingly. Do they have much of a choice? They both turn to see that the guard is gone and in place four other men in blacks suits and sunglasses are standing by and are communicating through their pinned-on wire pieces. They don’t hesitate after that.


	12. Black Walls Vol 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting for glorified retribution begins.

“I hate walking on cobblestone in heels!” Pea stops halfway down the alley and takes off her red heels, casually tossing them in the dumpster behind her. “Much better!” She lets out a breath of relief and rubs her swollen feet. Her ankles thank her for no chafing.

Paul turns back to see Pea still sitting on her behind. “I’ll rub your feet later. We’re losing distance with this woman.” Who’s very quick on her own feet, already two steps ahead of him. Whatever her exercise regimen is Paul wishes he had it.

Ahead of them is a set of double doors surrounded by a month’s worth of trash. Rotten cardboard and water damaged paper produce a foul order causing the participants to back up. Pea wishes she kept her shoes, because now she has tiptoe her stockings into the trench of bacteria. Shuddering she does her best to avoid the puddles and open the door handle. She peaks inside to see the lights are dim and they’re near a room labeled: maintenance. She turns back and waves her compadres onwards. They do their best to avoid any water stains that may get on their shoes, don’t want to track in any footsteps to alert drones or security staff.

Alex stops the group before they move any further. “No augmentations are going to do us any good here. I’ve already explored this building thanks to an acquaintance of my boss. Let’s just say…Paul your friend from higher places is still helping us little people.” She winks at him.

Paul has no idea who she’s talking about. What friend from higher places? Outside of the illuminati’s control? What haven’t they dipped their hands in that could be higher than the almighty King Page? He shakes his head, pushing aside many of his questions, he and Pea continue to follow the woman till they reach a storage room. Alex places her ear against the wall. Muffled voices can be heard talking. Paul goes to say what’s the talk about but doesn’t get a chance to. Alex silences Paul with her finger on his lips and motions him with her head to lean forward and listen. Pea goes to stand guard to make sure they don’t get caught.

To Paul’s surprise the voice doesn’t come from Page, but from his ex-music teacher: Delara. She sounds frantic and hysterical. Sobbing that Page’s life could be in danger. The event must be canceled and postponed till further notice. She cites that there has been suspicious activity with the guards. Some were not at their stations, and even tries to convince her own protection that they’ve changed places. When an original security worker went to go check, and returned they said they’ve found nothing out of sort. Everyone identified who they were and have the proper credentials on hand. They think she’s stressed and tired out from a long day of work and her schedule pile is preventing her from having a good night’s rest. She yells at them. Calling them delusional and that Page shouldn’t be allowed to go on stage right now. They tell her it’s too late. Page is already addressing his guests.

Alex and Paul pull away and take their place next to Pea. Pea turns to look at the two with their arms crossed, quirking an eyebrow at the glee that’s beaming off their faces. “Don’t leave me in suspense. How worried should I be?”

Paul pulls out the button that’s tucked away in a pocket of his suit jacket. “Page is on stage and we can hear when he comes in through the these paper thin walls.” The renovations worked in their favor. Only part of the building is made to look up to code and pass the health inspectors’ test. If anyone dared to inspect back here, they would hear the scurrying and squeaking of the rats that infested the drain pipes. Paul shudders from his past experiences of dealing with these creatures at the cheap hotels he stayed at. Speaking of which, he realizes that there’s going to be a matter of his home situation. If Page is going to be rendered incapacitated, there’s going to be an investigation, and if anything comes back to him…

Pea squeezes Paul’s troubled hand. “Don’t worry. I doubt anything’s going to come back to you. If your house is being spied on, then you would’ve been dead last week.”

Alex coughs and looks up from her spot. She’s taken a seat on an old worn out stack of boxes, patiently waiting for their next play. “I hate to the bearer of bad news, but your boyfriends house is under watch.” Pea and Paul give her a look that says they have no real relationship here. She shrugs and doesn’t believe their faces and continues, “What I mean is, your house is bugged. The only reason you’re not six feet underground yet, Paul, is because of my interference. UNATCO has always been watching you and your girl. I am just quicker with the loop and sound feed. They have no idea you even left your house. The hidden camera for your in and out quests is in your potted plant.”

Pea cracks a joke, “I knew you liked to talk to your plants, Paul, but dare you say that they cracked back?”

Paul is not this easily amused given his situation and the probabilities of any outcomes that the future holds for him. He paces around the small and cramped area, no longer thinking about the mission or others. Only just himself. His heart in his chest is starting to beat loudly through his ears. He can feel his breathing rise. Pea sees the early signs of a panic attack and stands in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders, gently sitting him back down on the ground. Not the most comfortable places, but he doesn’t need to be stomping around, alerting anyone of their location. She smoothly rubs them and looks around to see if there’s a food pantry around. Alex stops her before she makes her way out in the open where possible guards could be lurking about and tells her not to worry. She pulls out a bottle of water from her bag and hands it to her. Pea thanks her and uncaps the bottle, tilting Paul’s head back to help him drink from it.

He feels a bit better and apologizes for nearly giving themselves up because of all the possible noise. Pea tells him not to worry about it and brushes him off. “Feet off the ground. I don’t want you accidentally bumping into something to give us away.” She sits down on the floor next to him. Both waiting patiently for Page to make his way back to the dressing room.


	13. Black Walls Vol 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little loco goes a long way.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_That’s it. I’ve lost my mind somewhere a few months or paragraphs ago. I have no idea what I am doing with my life anymore or what to do with my ideas. Nobody wants to hear them. I repeat nobody wants to hear them. I’ve exhausted myself to the point where I am tired of writing in this fucking thing. A stress release? Laughable. I’ve been antsy for days. I am bored. My toilet is bored from me cleaning it with happy foaming bubbles. My shower is bored and tired of being mildew free and smells like constant lemon-lime. My kitchen is daring me to spray it with pineapple scented odor coverup again. My vacuum is on its wits end, and the light bulb burned out again. Good. Gives me a chance to get the fuck out of this fucking house and go to the fucking store again. Fuck, I hope somebody mugs me and puts me out of my fucking misery. Fuck, I wouldn’t even make an attempt to wring their neck this time. I promise._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Another day and another morning where I told the world to kiss my ass. What did I do today, Journal? Nothing spectacular. I stepped out of my house again to go cut the grass and water my plants. The red roses are blooming nicely with a few handicapped stems. I planted them earlier this year in hopes to bring peace to my chaotic front yard. Then the homeless hillbillies came and took them all. Took me forever to regrow them, and still tempted to put up an electric fence to keep away the unwanted. What? Stop reading this like that. I don’t have any control over what I couldn’t help. Blame society and the fucked-up shit that revolves around it. America is always going to stand up on its own two feet. That’s how it always been. Where we as a government that controls people fail, there’s always going to be someone lower than them that will come out on top. Then what happens from there? A happy ending? No. They’ll fuck up the country too. History loves repeating itself like that. The only thing we have control over is the actions that we do achieve to only have a consequence. After paying taxes._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I provoked someone to rob me today. When the police arrived, they ordered me to go home and think about what I am doing with my life. I told them I have no life anymore to think about. Wrong choice of words. I ended up in a 24-hour psychiatric hold till I sobered up._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I’ve been ordered by my districts local court to attend counseling sessions. This is non-negotiable._

Pea coughs a “ahem”, breaking Paul from his reading. He turns to her, “The song of the frog will get us noticed.” He closes the book and places it back in his tux pocket.

She shakes her head at his ability to just shove things away when the dire need to concentrate on the next stage of their plan needs to take first priority. However, she doesn’t ridicule him for bringing the diary along on this journey. Who knows what would’ve happened if he left it behind? UNATCO could’ve came in and searched his house while they’re away and used their power to subside away with their lack of warrants. They didn’t need one when their own agents’ lives are at the potential risk of hurting others. “I just wanted to know if we’re going to address the guard from earlier. I know who he is. The honeycomb blonde hair guy made the news last year when he attempted a coup to get Ambrosia shipments and failed. Did you have something to do with that? I thought he died.”

Alex pipes in before Pea gives away more than she should be, “He’s my boss. That’s all the need to know bases Paul needs for his mission. Worry about the minor inconvenience later.”

Pea looks at Alex with weary. “He deserves to know the truth.”

“Man, he’ll be thankful with a pet rock that gets him out of this jam. This discussion is over.” Alex means it, and sternly ends the conversation with her body motions. She turns forward, facing the wall, huffing her shoulders out, listening in to see if Page has returned. All is quiet on the frontier, minus for Delara’s constant shuffling about and making stressful noises with her mouth.

This is true for Paul’s current sanity, but him and Pea will still need to return home to make it look like to the camera’s that wouldn’t be on a constant feed loop. Luckily for them they brought the original outfits they left the house with. Not on their person but at a drop site not too far where the limousine had dropped them off. Their goal is to stay the night and leave the next morning, run away somewhere that no one can find them. Join a coalition that can take down the Illuminati from behind the scenes. One that didn’t fail in the past. There are plenty of those. One particularly in France caught Paul’s eye that’s hiding behind the renamed newspaper. They’re the olden days of accurate news the people of the underground could trust and count on. Unlike the current broadcast systems that are showing repeats of propaganda and how great the country is thriving under the new leadership. Yeah, that’s why many states seceded from the union. Once great, now destroyed due to corporate greed.

“Don’t worry about the past right now, Pea. We need to wait for Page.” Paul pulls out the book again and flips back to his latest dog mark. He doesn’t get a chance, because Pea snatches the book out of his hands. He looks up at her with fear. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving your brain.” She shoves it back where it came from. “Sometimes I regret giving you this thing, but I know how important this Sarif guy is to you. He’s important to me to…well, the stories I’ve heard makes him hearsay important…” She knows what Sarif has done to Jensen thanks to her mom’s doubts and conflictions of what to think of her former boss. She thinks it’s completely fucked up, but right now, no one needs to worry about the dumb journal.

They stop talking when they hear the door open and close behind the walls. Page is screaming at Delara, wondering why she’s being delusional about some illusional staff changes that never happened. She goes on that she’s worried for him. He tells her that she’s being preposterous. If someone wanted him dead, they would’ve done so by now by the means of assassination or by some random well-known hacker that could make a slight dent in his neural augmentations, and those types died out decades ago. There’s no one left alive that new this much about his neural implants other than his current AI project. Only if Page knew what’s secretly waiting for him behind the doors.

Paul closes his eyes and imagines a serene place where he can be at with Pea or just by himself. A beach with calming waves and chirping seagulls? A deserted island that holds the most beautiful wild cats? The moon? A forest with an abandoned mansion? An abandoned temple? Some no extradition country? Whatever it is, he feels Pea behind him having his back, whispering into his ear that everything’s going to be ok as she wraps her arms around his neck. Her fingers stretch over his, and they both press the button together. Paul snaps back into reality when he hears Page ask: Did you hear that?


	14. Black Walls Vol 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to bail.

Paul and Pea’s shoulders tense up, Alex’s posture remains in a neutral position. They can hear Page talking about a loud ringing noise in his head. Sounds of a buzzing gnat has made its way through his ear canal and burrowing through the neuro receptors of his brain. The angry scream doesn’t sound pleasant. He’s desperately yelling at someone to turn off the computer before he shoves something into his head to make himself go deaf. The security guards are rushing around, turning off any electronic computer in the room. This isn’t enough. He complains that the buzzing is still there and coming through the security camera from above his head. His staff look at him and let him know they don’t have clearance to turn it off as it’s not under their jurisdiction to do so. He doesn’t care. He demands them to turn it off or they’ll be losing more than just their jobs! They take a step back with compliance. They go to radio in for help through their earpieces. Page tells them there’s not enough time for that and to shoot it!

Not one professional has any EMP guns on them. They didn’t plan to think that their bosses’ brain to be the one that gets held hostage tonight. The only the reports of suspicious activity are reports from Delara, and it’s about the absurd number of lurkers that have traded positions with almost nearly everyone in the room. Obviously, Page’s own personal bodyguards are the exception for this case. Alex is shaking her head side to side in a trance of a sweet lullaby. She’s enjoying the discomfort and hurt Page is suffering. He deserves it, and he’s going to find out how far his own torment will lead him. The initial start phase of what a subconscious guilt should be right about now.

Page starts his first sentence crying about how he shouldn’t have to deal with this obscene amount of noise over his past attempts of a total takeover of US domination in stakes held higher than the average brain could comprehend. His hands are moving around wildly, dollar signs appearing in his vision of green, a crown with red jewels encrusted on all the pointed ends is placed upon his head by his wife who takes her place by standing next to him with head bowed and hands folded, and the cherry on top his him sitting cross legged on a throne with his chin resting on his knuckles, while he stares ahead at all the government officials kneeling before him. The lower lives of the US citizens are praying to him from behind, begging him for a quick drug release, food to feed their starving families, and for jobs that no longer exist. Every terrain around him is in a brown and white color scratch shape resembling a dead wasteland. The tears of rain are made of a translucent that avoid his head. He’s not paying attention to their demands, only the satisfaction of his ego hearing their pledge of allegiance.

Delara should be horrified, right? That’s the question rummaging through Paul’s head. Instead she’s standing there next to Page with a calm voice and telling him everything’s going to be alright. Soothing him like he’s a small child patient. The bad weather is going to pass, and this will be a distant memory lapse of stress despite her own paranoia and shaking hands. The lump in Paul’s throat refuses to go down. He crosses his arms over his chest to give him the sense that his heart would be able to take the painful cries, shoulders don’t relax from their tensed positions. All he and the rest of the group could do is listen to Page’s screams and Delara’s questionable word choices for the increasingly unstable man.

Bad weather. Bad weather. All the bad weather from foreign affairs. The UN composed of hidden agents are raining down their bad weather all over Page’s great storm of events. The satellites from Earth purposely spitting heated rain drops upon his precious charitable event to help find the cure for diseases all ruined by one man made rain cloud. He had shown the man in charge. He showed his successor, the two-headed snake. The one that sees the past and the future. The one that couldn’t see the present tornado of events right in front of them when they were a member of evil themselves. Page laughs in delight. Explaining to Delara that because of a man no one remembers, because they’re dead by his hands, that they’re here in this predicament. He just knows it. Delara doesn’t understand. She’s side-eyeing the guards next to her, wondering how they’re remaining calm when they should be escorting her to safety. Why are they doing no such thing? Page is pacing in front of her, his implants on his neck and guiding above his eye are glowing a deeper shade of blue. He’s laughing and continue talking in a trance. Over and over he repeats about the redemption the illuminati need to accomplish in order for his precious accomplishments to take supreme as number one in the country.

Paul stares at Alex, wanting to know what’s going to happen from here. “Is his brain going to explode from all that suppressed guilt and crime?”

“No. He’s just going to keep rambling on to the hidden camera in the room that’s broadcasting his speech to all the major news networks.” Alex shrugs and stands up, checking her watch to see the time. She frowns and quickly brushes her way passed the two. “We spent more than enough time here.” She opens the door and pokes her head outside. “Coast is clear.”

The group exit the storage room after making sure to leave no traces of their presence. They can hear rustling and items being thrown from behind the wall. Shots are fired, cries have broken out, and no one wants to stay around long enough to find out why. Alex escorts them back to the back-alley door. “This is where we make do and part ways.” She places her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side, giving a Paul a one up and down. “I can’t say Pea here didn’t choose unwisely. I’m going to miss you children.”

“Thank you?” Paul feels bewildered by her compliment. Pea and himself haven’t even kissed, and she thinks that he’s a catch? No one, not even his brother, would find that believable. He’s always been the smart and laughable one with the kind smile but to catch an eye of two women? Farfetched. He shakes his head and holds up his hands to change the subject. “We need to gather our clothes. Our ride is supposed to pick us up after the event is over.”

“I get you. I’ll be on my way, and here…” Alex pulls out two business cards and hands one each to the couple. “If you two ever need to get yourselves out of a jam, call me.” She winks at Paul and then leaves.

Pea puffs her cheeks out. “She likes your attributes and assets more than mine.” She doesn’t just mean in talents.

“I am not that much of a genius.” Paul shoves the card in his tux pocket. It’ll be used as a bookmark for future uses. No more ruining perfectly good old diaries with animal marks. “Let’s go. We need to call the driver now due to unseen circumstances. While they’re on the way, we need to get our clothes.”

Pea nods in agreement. They make haste towards another alley to grab their bags, and both are relieved to see the spare clothes are still in the same position. Being in this part of town always leaves a trail of bad taste. When they return the limo is already waiting outside for them with the door held open. Paul greets them with a nervous look and makes a request that they take them to an ice cream shop just on the other side of town. The driver doesn’t question him. As long as they get paid, they have no reason to act suspicious. Police officers in riot gear arrive on the scene as they’re pulling away. Screaming guests rush out the door and to their own vehicles.

The ride between the patrons is a quiet one. The only sound coming out is from the radio broadcasting a breaking news story from the building they just left. The reporter is talking about multiple shots being fired and casualties have been reported, making Paul uneasy. He didn’t know there were going to be unnecessary deaths. His face darkens at the thought of being used as a pawn this way. If this is payback for what happened at Battery Park, then.... His face hardens and teeth are grinding against each other. Every reporter is frantically trying to piece together what’s going on with Page’s confession being replayed, each segment being broken down to the t. Paul doesn’t think he fully understands what’s supposed to be happening. Pea squeezes his knee and asks the driver to turn off the radio. The driver complies without a second thought.

“We’re here, Paul.” Pea doesn’t wait for the hospitality to open her side. She rushes out with her bag in hand and makes her way inside with Paul following behind her. Neither noticing the driver smirk at them from the rearview mirror. His mission as a pretend bodyguard and driver is now complete. He salutes to no one and makes his way back to Alex to deliver the good news of a semi-new enemy in their hands or a possible future ally to use.


	15. Black Walls Vol 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only one gets the good ending.

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_My rehabilitation is going smoothly. As smooth as I will make it for anyone that deals with me. Already went through three therapists and the judge is threatening to throw me in jail for my insubordination and uncooperativeness to change. I am not delusional, crazy, or insane. Just mentally tired and physically exhausted with myself. I lost my son, I lost my associates, and I lost everything else because of one single incident. I had a chance to help mankind evolve passed their inferior human anatomy. We had a chance to chase after our own beings. A chance to increase our intelligence, our livelihood, our way of cognitive life. Become our own immortal Gods, but where did that get this Icarus? Nowhere. I am a broken old man with a 5 o’clock shadow with puffy eyes that are trying to glue their feathers back together. I am nothing without the wings that I need to help me get my feet back off the ground._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I’ve come to realize that everything I have accomplished is nothing more than a little boy’s dream. The court made that crystal clear to me with their final strike on my wrist. I have to either shape up and live my unstable mental state in a state mandated institution._

_Don’t play God, folks. There’s always another trying to cosmic entity themselves, and they’re above the law. Don’t think I didn’t see you standing in the shadows, Page. That wicked smile of victory is enriched forever into my mind. Only if I could wipe that smugness off his face. What I wouldn’t give to see him fall into a mental relapse of induced guilt._

_Now, there’s an idea. This will take some careful planning and lowkey contact with an old client of mine, but I can make this work._

_Yeah, I can make this work._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I sent an invitation to my two favorite ex-associates for a Christmas dinner. They didn’t respond too kindly to the PS at the bottom that explains that this is for business purposes only. I should’ve just gone with Thanksgiving and invited my niece and sister. There at least be a reason to put up Christmas decorations and sing carols in the wintertime. I would’ve embarrassed myself like that if they acknowledge that I still exist. First associate told me that I am being selfish again and stick the invitation up my ass in a fine binary code of conduct. The second one said she’s too tired to deal with me and she already has to take care of one baby why bother with another? Ouch. I’ll try again next year. I have all the time in the world to get these two to agree with me. 2031, right? What can I do in the meantime that doesn’t involve a holiday that I only celebrate to keep pretending that everything’s ok?_

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_I found out what to do while I grow my beard out. Why I made a deal with the red-eyed devil! I took a gambit and stepped a foot into San Francisco today. Wanted to see what fate had dealt me. I don’t think too kindly of the cards that are side-ways, upside down, or in a different language. This year has been giving me all kinds of grief. The hotel I am in has terrible room service and the bars are set low for TV stations. PICUS news here, PICUS news on there, PICUS news downstairs, in the bar, in the bathroom, across the hall, everywhere, anywhere there’s a news-news. When will it end? God, if this is your punishment for me, because I denied your existence then I am terribly sorry. Get me out of this Hell._

_Wait, I already stepped into it, and my personal Hell is named: VERSALIFE._

_xx.xx.2030 –_

_Final entry day of 2030, and I have what I need in my hand. A small thumb drive with all the neurological data from a man that would make any configuration hacker and enemy of the state pee their pants. All it took was to throw away my self-respect and accept a few handshakes._

_Hello, 2031. Let me spend the day with you and be proud of myself again. Short lived and not enough holiday dinners will come around for me to even gain anyone’s trust back due to the road to the continue onward Hell being paved with what’s going to be proven best for humanity’s interest, but this closing moment with a small piece of technology is a great start into a new sense of perseverance._

_Good-bye, diary. Your therapeutic solutions have served me well in the grudging evidence department. May your leathery soul find solace and peace._

_~Sarif_

Paul closes the book. “That ending sucked.” He expected an explosion of fireworks or a life lesson, but things didn’t turn out that way. An anti-climactic story ending by going the route of a cliched “hero loses everything in the end anyways” bit. He sighs and pushes the book to the side. Tempted to throw it in the trash can or set it on fire out behind the shop.

Pea pokes her pistachio ice cream with her spoon and says calmly with closed eyes, “Your chocolate ice cream melted.”

Paul looks down to see that there is a melted mess under his nose. “Just like my life right now.” He slumps down in his chair. Too tired and frustrated to eat now.

“Don’t worry about your life, Paul. You have me in it! How much more boring can you get?” Pea winks, taking a large portion of ice cream on her spoon and shoves it in her mouth. She’s taunting the poor man with her loud gulping and moans of delight. Serves him right for letting good food go to waste.

“However should I be so lucky?” He sits up, ignoring the cracking pain in his back. “God, why did I agree to this place? The chairs here are made up of terribly crafted wood!”

“For an old timey feel?” Pea shrugs. “We can always eat outside. The night air would do us some good.”

“I rather have a conversation in here then having wind blow in my face.” Paul leans forward, using his own spoon to snag a bite from Pea’s cup. She smacks him with her own before he could even reach a hand partially near her edible treat. He pulls away shaking his hand and glares at her. “And here I wanted to do an ‘exchange of food kiss’ scene. No romantic kiss for you!”

“Not when it comes to this, honey.” She sticks her tongue out. It’s stained green. “And I have a grinch tongue.”

“But it would be a taste I enjoy.” He’s flirting. Nauseous, bad flirting. Doesn’t even get an eyeroll pity. Just a stare. “Oh, come on! Took me a full two seconds to come up with that one!”

“You’re lucky I think you’re cute. Others would just dump your body in a ditch.” Pea casually wipes her mouth with a napkin, her dessert clean while Paul’s has melted through the paper. “Anyways, we need to head back to your place now. We need to look good for the cameras, and for the love of Christ clean up your mess! You got ice cream all over the table!”

“I’m in a foul mood, ok? I feel like I’ve invested myself into a really good story and got slapped in the face by a shitty ending!” Paul sits back with his arms crossed, pouting like a child.

Pea’s not having this attitude directed towards her. “Look.” She pauses momentarily with a stern expression. “Things have obviously worked out for Sarif and us. We’re sitting here and Page is going to end up in a padded cell. What more do you want?”

“I want a better story!” Paul stands up, using his neruo link to call for a ride. Pea follows him outside after cleaning up the mess and pushing in the hardwood chairs. She didn’t want the employees to deal with any trouble on the account of them.

“And we will get a better story, but we have to continue writing it first!” Their ride stops in front of them. A taxi driver gets out of the car, greets them, and asks them if they have any luggage they can take off their hands to place in the trunk. Both decline the offer and keep the outfits close to them. They don’t persist and are weary if they’re even going to tip them tonight. Pea gives them an apologetic look, letting them know that they wouldn’t be any trouble. They just want to get home in one piece with only stoplights giving them an issue. They sigh and complied, closing the doors behind the two and drives them to the designated address set to their GPS.

Once inside the two throw the garments in the corner of the room and make their way to the kitchen. Paul puts on a pot of coffee, slipping off his tennis shoes afterwards. Pea copies his motions, but hers are nasty sneakers that she’s outgrown. “Ugh! I need to really buy new shoes! I am not used to wearing tennis shoes these days!”

Paul picks out two white ceramic mugs from the cabinet. Both have funny animal sayings with pictures on them that dictate his very own personality. Neither are picked out by him, that’s all his brother’s fault. Sighing, he reads the first one: _Have a grand old sloth of a time!_ Pictured is a Sloth with a walker and a long gray beard that makes them look like Merlin. Pea finds this amusing and makes jokes that this would be Paul’s attitude with the way he’s acting tonight.

Paul mumbles, while grabbing the cream and sugar for himself, “I am definitely not the sloth here.” If Pea wants to act this foolish, she could make her own coffee and with her own mug! She’s not getting the shark one now!

“Don’t be bratty. I’m only joking.” Pea stands up and takes the cup that’s meant for Paul away. He tries to take it back, but she’s too fast for him! She dodges his grabby hands, while gracefully not spilling a single drop on herself or the floor. “Ballerina lessons paid off!”

“You were into pink?” A disappointed Paul pours his coffee in his disappointed great white shark cup that reads: _He had lit tastes!_ The shark has a lamp in its mouth that looks like a severed leg.

“My mom made me do a lot of things that I didn’t like to keep me out of trouble, and yes, I like pink! Nothing wrong with pink!” Pea sticks her tongue and sits down on the stool to relax.

Paul takes his place next to her. “You think the thing is back on now?” He’s talking about the camera loop running back to normalized patterns. She nods and stares off into space. They both sit for an hour, drinking their coffee in silence.

“We should finish he night off.” She’s not even subtle with the tone and gestures she’s playing at. Standing up, she places her mug down, and moves to the hallway where the rooms rest behind her, waiting for Paul to come over to take her to his bedroom.

He hesitates. “Pea…” He softly speaks to her. “I like you, but I don’t…” He doesn’t want to fuck on the first pretend date. That title is saved for the second.

“I get it. You rather wait till we fake our death.” Pea laughs at her own joke, waving off the uneasiness of Paul. “That’s fine. I didn’t expect anything less from you.”

Paul can hear the disappointment in her voice. Guilt is eating at him for making her bring a blow dryer for the air mattress, and not even bothering to think about her comfort. At least this way she’ll have somewhere decent to sleep, and he can drag the air bed into his room while she takes the bed.

Pea stops him before he leaves. “Have your bed.” She leans in giving him a small kiss on the lips. He returns the mutual feeling of tenderness.

He waits for her to pull away first. She doesn’t budge or deepen the kiss. Lets her lips linger there, letting Paul assert any informal consent for this pressure of lips to continue. When he doesn’t make a move, she takes a chance to wrap her arms around Paul’s neck, pulling him closer, opening her mouth. He lets hit tongue linger on hers for a moment, debating in his head if he wants to continue. He wants to, he really does. He can see the plea in her eyes, but he can’t. He’s heartbroken for her feelings and torn with himself after he pulls away.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t.” He sits on his own bed with his hands folded in front of him, head hanging low. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You’re not ready for this kind of commitment.” She knows that’s what he’s really thinking. His job, the cameras, anything that could trace her back. She sits down next to him and rubs his back. “That’s fine. We’ll figure out where to go when we’re far away from here, ok?”

Paul’s heart drops further. “I’m sorry. Let’s try again when we’re on vacation in China? I want to see the old districts.”

“Extortion of Extradition much?” Pea nudges his attempt at the joke, but his face says otherwise. “What? You’re serious?”

“I have a vacation coming up.” He can afford a one-way trip if Pea chips in. “Obviously, I can’t fully pay for our vacation.”

“Ours only when convenient.” She’s teasing him. Everything going on may seem hopeless for them. Things will not be easy for them or their remaining family. Paul would be considered AWOL when he doesn’t come back from his vacation, the camera’s will find that all the essential paperwork have been taken, and his brother will be assigned to come after them, but that wouldn’t stop forward progress. Pea’s things will be forgotten. Everything her mother and father left behind just for her will be collected by their enemy and investigated. They’ll be deemed terrorist by the news. They’ll be in bunkers hiding from the liars, but what will anyone know? They’ll scream and call the nearest police officer to arrest them out of fear and because of the pictures on wanted posters. Pea pulls out Alex’s calling card from her pocket. She forgotten she stashed it there. “We wouldn’t be penniless.”

Paul squeezes her hand at the small bit of hope that sparked in his heart. “No, we wouldn’t.”

She gives Alex a call.


End file.
